


I'm The Mountain

by Hugrf



Series: A Sun of Lavender [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Recovery, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Sorta slow burn?, Tags May Change, Touch-Starved, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, arthur is having a shit time, but charles tries to help best he can, not like horrible slow burn but like i'm gonna take my time u feel, touch-starved arthur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24622792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hugrf/pseuds/Hugrf
Summary: Arthur, still recovering from his recent trauma, starts to bond a little more with his close friend Charles.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Series: A Sun of Lavender [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1819708
Comments: 14
Kudos: 120





	1. Hunter's Rest

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Hopefully not too boring of a chapter to start off with. Idk where I'm gonna go with this but I really love the dynamic between Arthur and Charles, platonic or not, and I wanna write about it so here :D  
> I submitted this in somewhat of a rush so I might come back later and do some editing. In the meantime, enjoy, and critique is welcome :)

Arthur jerked awake, his chest heaving and beads of cold sweat plastered across his forehead.

It was a nightmare. Not unexpected, for he had one every night, but not quite welcome, either.  
He pushed on, told himself to keep going, to not think of what happened. And yet, even if he somehow managed not to catch the near-constant reminders, not to think of the house in the swamp, of Sonny, it still came back in his dreams. _He_ came back in his dreams, and just the thought of him gave Arthur a terrible sense of dread. 

Arthur sat quiet a moment longer. He stretched, then rose to begin his day.  
A breakfast of canned peaches and coffee, a morning full of chores, and by noon, he had a lunch of Pearson's stew. Not the man's best, he'd admit. A bit gamey, hard to fully chew each piece of meat. He finished it regardless, for any food he could take he knew he needed.  
Arthur was underweight, but slowly gaining it back to normal. He had days where he ate little, and others where he didn't eat at all despite Susan's nagging, Tilly's concern, and Hosea's light-hearted and well-meaning teasing.  
He caught Charles approaching him, taking a half-eaten bowl of stew and setting it down next to Arthur's, joining him in lunch.  
Often Charles would notice his eating habits, and as calm and collected as he was, would simply remind him he needed to eat. Others would do it, too, Susan nearly forcing it down his throat when she caught a glimpse of the way his collarbone stuck out. Arthur found himself appreciating their care yet being agitated by it at the same time, though Charles was an exception. He was not going to push him. He was patient, seemed to understand that if Arthur didn't follow the reminder, then he wouldn't eat at all, and no one could make him. 

He liked Charles. He was smart, observant, honest, moral, and they got along well. Charles never told him he was dumb, never pushed him, never seemed like he was truly against him. Arthur had made regrettable choices with Charles to witness, and though he called him out, he never seemed to truly hold it against him. He appreciated his honesty, his corrections that pushed Arthur to do better, and admittedly, he admired him. Charles was a far better man than Arthur would ever be.

"Hey, Arthur. Want to go hunting with me again?" Charles asked, and it caught Arthur by surprise.

Last time they hunted together, they found a couple of poachers hired to make it look like Indians had slaughtered the bison. 

In a snap, Charles drew his gun and shot the first. Arthur interrogated the second, but when he got the information he needed, he spared him and let him go free.

Charles was enraged, and even more so at Arthur's decision. Since then, he wondered if he'd ever earn Charles' forgiveness.

The man did an awful thing, he'd acknowledge that. Even if Arthur did not hold the same principals as Charles, even if he did not find needless killing of any species repulsive, it was enough to see Charles turn so quick in fury. A part of Arthur regretted not having killed the guilty man then and there, and even now, he wondered why he didn't do it.  
It was pointless. The man had a family, and was just doing what he was told. Killing him over it changed nothing other than to make a widow and fatherless children. A part of Arthur believed that. Another part of him believed he only let the plague spread further of destructive behavior imposed upon people who's only wrongdoing was their birth and their culture.  
He understood Charles' anger. He wished he could think faster than spare a man who may or may not had deserved it. In the meantime, he figured he would not think about it at all, bury it deep with all the other past sins and pains he had both wrought and experienced. /p>

"Sho'. I'll make sure it's not a repeat of last time." Arthur said, not looking at him as he spoke and lightly picked at his stew.

When Arthur and him cleared the way for the gang to make the place they now stood in their home, Charles then was angry, too. It stung then. Not as hard as it stung with the bison poaching incident, but god, it stung.  
He didn't show it. He obeyed Charles' and the family's request and tried to do better, and that was that. As aforementioned, despite the sting, he appreciated Charles' honesty.  
With the bison, it was somehow different. He couldn't quite place why he still held onto it with such remorse; a thorn in his chest he could never get out.

Both served one thought: he disappointed the man he admired.  
Not that he would admit it, but through Charles' subtle acts of care, his hard work, his sense of morality and his unique point of view, he dearly admired Charles. Ever since that day in Blackwater, when Dutch announced their new camp member, he slowly grew in an interest in him. Over time, that grew into the respect and admiration he held now.  
Fortunately, he was very good at hiding both that and the sting.

"Don't worry about it." Charles said, leaving Arthur to long for more, but when he realized there wouldn't be, he dropped it. He buried it, too. Charles took the last scoops of his stew, then finally continued. "We're going to hunt elk this time. Past Annesburg, towards the Grizzlies."  
"Ready to go whenever you are." Arthur said, as quick of a response as ever..

Arthur briefly told Dutch and Hosea that he was leaving to hunt with Charles.  
Dutch was distant since the day he returned to camp after that one week and a half, and he barely changed since then. He was dismissive of Arthur, but told him to come back soon. Arthur tried to ignore his strange behavior then, and he did so now.  
Hosea told him to stay safe, and reminded him to pack extra food and medicine just in case. Arthur followed the reminder.

Soon, they were off, Arthur on Rain and Charles on Taima with a long journey ahead of them.

\--

"You know, you've been pretty quiet lately. More than usual." Charles commented, unprompted. They had gone hours on their ride without talking. Arthur took a moment to realize that yes, Charles did indeed say something. In response, he snorted.  
"Seem to have a distant look in your eyes." Charles continued. "Everything alright with you and Dutch? You two seem... I don't know. I know Dutch was mad you were away that one week. Not sure why, but it didn't seem like he stopped being mad, either."  
Arthur looked down at his hands, trying to keep them steady on the reins. He sharply inhaled. "We're fine."  
"Alright. If you say so." Charles replied with a hint of sarcasm. 

They made it up to a ridge where they set up camp, bedrolls set down for each of them. Arthur noted that it provided a nice view of the stars once night fell on them.  
Arthur went out and caught them a rabbit of which they shared over the campfire. No more words were spoken other than a few 'goodnight's when they crawled into their bedrolls. Arthur was content with the silence, finding he enjoyed Charles' presence and was fine with nothing else.  
When Arthur got comfortable, sleep hit him fast, faster than a boulder tumbling down a hill.

\--

_Arthur felt the familiar sensation of cuffs around his wrists and a weight over his chest and belly.  
A weight tugging at him, pushing at him. A weight that soon tore through him, causing enough pain to want to make him scream.  
Yet, whatever was on top of him was invisible.  
He looked down to see the blurry vision of what looked to be guts strewn out over him. Whether it was his guts or someone else's was unclear, but with the dull ache it caused him, he concluded it was his. _

_His mouth was dry, ears buzzing like the cicadas in the dead of summer. He looked up to see a figure in the corner of the room, and though it was twisted, something that should not be recognizable, he easily put a name to it that he knew before in his other dreams and the like._

_It struck forward, flesh thin with bones poking through, maw open and foaming with a ravenous look in its eyes. Its long fingers with claws like the tips of spears crept over Arthur's thighs, then -_

Arthur was thrown back into reality, gasping for air and clutching at his chest. His eyes were wide, unfocused, as panic spread throughout his whole body. He was trembling miserably, nails digging hard into the opposite arm as he held himself close.  
"No, no, no - no... no." He whispered. "Can't be, can't be." Repeating to himself over and over, clinging onto whatever might keep him from stepping further into the haze he woke up with.

He heard a voice that was not his own. It was close, yet it felt far off; down a tunnel, or more accurately, at the top of the rabbithole Arthur found himself in.  
He felt something on his shoulder. A hand, he realized, and he was quick to jerk away from it.  
"No, no, no - don't touch me." He rasped. "Don't touch me. Don't fucking touch me." Quiet anger; his voice struggled to break.

Before long, soft yet firm, "Arthur." The figure kneeled in front of him, watching calmly.  
It was still dark, sun barely trickling up the horizon, splashing pink and orange paint at the end of a blue-grey sky. Before Arthur could see him, he recognized his voice, and his eyes adjusted fast to confirm that fact.

"Arthur, I'm not going to hurt you." Charles said. Arthur stared at him, wide-eyed.  
He knew it was him. Yet, vaguely, he could feel his blood, his veins, his head screaming that he was in danger, still in the Bayou Nwa where he found Sonny.  
It was not the same nightmare or feeling he felt after the day he first stood by the graves of Eliza and Isaac; nor when he was a child, his mother gone and father sooner taking to the bottle and scorning his son rather than taking over for her. The fear and pain from his childhood were long gone, replaced by one feeling same as his grief for his own son; weight.  
A heavy, suffocating weight on his chest that rarely went away. 

He always tried to drown it out one way or another. Bark or his own teeth against his knuckles and arms, bullet to animal or man from his gun. He would ignore it, pushing it down fast when it kept rising up stronger and heavier. Sometimes, he drank it away. He considered sex, but gave up that pursuit long ago, back when Eliza and Isaac were still alive.

It hurt, and some days, it didn't stop hurting. However, he got as used to it as a half-healed wound, and many times it wasn't noticeable at all. 

Now, there was the new impact that the one day in the swamp had on him. The weight never left, but now it liked to reach heights he hadn't been in a long time, climbing until Arthur couldn't see it at the top. The few times it got there, it turned into fire and ice in his veins, and he'd wonder if he should take the initiative on his own life if this invisible sickness wasn't going to claim him.

Of course, he never let anyone see it. Uncle once caught sight of the beginning stages, commented on how Arthur froze and looked like he saw a cougar heading his way, but before his breath went heavy he walked away, steps heavy to give the illusion of rage instead of distress.

He told himself that it would only make it worse if someone saw him like that. Hosea's words about healing with others still rung true, but he wasn't ready. He didn't think the others were ready, either. 

Arthur was drenched in cold sweat. He sat up, uncertain if he could sleep anymore with that creeping feeling over his limbs, although it had faded significantly.  
"Are you okay?" Charles asked. He shifted to sit next to Arthur, keeping a respectable distance.  
"Yeah." Arthur croaked.  
"If you say so." Charles said. A pause, then, "I'm going to catch us something. We'll need the energy. Think you can sleep any more?"  
Arthur scoffed dryly. "Nah."  
"Alright. Well, just hold up the camp while I'm gone. I'll be back soon." He said. Arthur saw the worried glance Charles cast, but he didn't turn to meet it.  
As Charles left, Arthur gave the pile of charcoal that was once their fire a distant stare. 

\--

The sun shone bright past the trees, though it was only half above the horizon. It was then that Charles returned with a rabbit alongside tinder and wood for the fire. As he worked to remake a flame, Arthur rose, stretched, and took the rabbit to skin and gut for him.

They stayed silent. Whatever had to be communicated was said through glances and long looks. For Charles, it all meant "I'm worried for you." Not pitying, but still making sure Arthur wouldn't delve into that pit again, that he would be okay, at least to some extent.  
For Arthur, it was not quite something he could put into words so easily. He just watched him, guilt tugging at his conscious for letting Charles see him like that; for Charles to see him so vulnerable. In his own way, he supposed he was making sure Charles was okay, too. Or at least, hoping he didn't think differently of Arthur, one way or another. Arthur looked down at his hands, watching the way they fumbled with eachother, feeling soft patches of skin in hopes to find comfort in it.

"You look tired," said Charles. "I gathered some oregano while we were out. It's a good herb to give us some extra energy while we're out."  
Arthur hummed in acknowledgment.  
"Still up for hunting elk?" Charles asked.  
"I've hunted bigger with less sleep. I'm fine." Arthur grumbled. 

They ate. Arthur was grateful to find that the oregano did indeed give him the boost he needed for the day, and hopefully it would help keep his mind off of his nightmares, too. After that, they set out.

The first few hours, they had little luck in their hunt, but after that, Arthur found the perfect bull elk and got him fast in the head with an improved arrow.  
"You've improved a lot with that bow since last we hunted." Charles commented as they approached the fresh kill.  
"Thanks." Arthur said, blank. "Can't say it's always my preferred method, but I like it for huntin'. Like how it's quiet. Feels powerful, somehow. Least I don't have to brace for the recoil, too."  
Charles nodded, silently agreeing.

They spent the rest of their day peeling off the hide, cutting off the antlers, and salvaging everything they possibly could from the meat. It left a bloody, gorey mess, not that either of them minded.  
Charles scraped off fat and flesh from the hide while Arthur took whatever was left, putting their take in two large sacks to carry back to camp. He helped Charles with the remaining bits of the hide, then salted it to assure its preservation. Arthur took it with him, and the two made their way back to camp. This time, it would be straight there without breaks to make sure their catch stayed fresh.

"Hey, Arthur?" Charles broke the silence. "Thanks for coming with me."  
"Sho'. No problem."  
A pause.  
"I think I kinda needed this. Things feel... tense at camp. Figured you might need a break, too."  
Arthur huffed in amusement. "Yeah, you could say that." He held a sarcastic grin, though it was brief. "Break can't fix anything. Helps a little, at least."  
Charles muttered an agreement.

Though the rest of their ride they did not talk, Arthur couldn't help but think about their day, as simple as it was.  
In the midst of a horrible month, he would say it was the best day he had in a long time. It wasn't the kill that made it good, nor being away from camp, nor the sights to see, nor the satisfying, mindless process of peeling meat and hide from an elk. Though they contributed, he knew the subtle joy in his chest that he found incredibly rare was not due to any of this.  
It was Charles.  
It was being in his presence, comfortable, free. Being alone with him gave him a certain feeling of peace that he couldn't quite explain. The sting he felt earlier disappeared merely with his soothing and lingering presence.  
Charles never judged him, never looked down on him, never forced a conversation he didn't want. He always listened, and Arthur was more than happy to return the favor when Charles spoke about himself. He was fascinated by the man, not by his background, but by him.  
They respected eachother. They cared about eachother, and that was all Arthur could ask for in a friend such as Charles.  
Arthur took a silent vow to do his best to do right by Charles.

As they unloaded the bags of meat and the hide onto Pearson, Arthur stopped for a moment, glancing at Charles.  
"You know, we should go back up there again sometime. Just you 'n me. Don't need to hunt or anythin'."  
Charles pursed his lips. Arthur worried that he'd mention their responsibilities at camp, having to stay for one reason or another, but in that brief moment, his worries were washed away by the soft, subtle smile Charles gave him.  
"I'd like that. Just let me know when you want to go."

Arthur nodded, and they went their separate ways, back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy. Just an fyi I edited this a little bit, didn't feel quite satisfied with it. Hope y'all enjoy this first chapter c:


	2. Beyond A New Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dutch is suspicious of Arthur. Charles discovers more about Arthur's nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! I've been meaning to finish this for a long time, but time slips away fast. I don't always have motivation to write, unfortunately. Here it finally is though. I'm not sure if I'm proud of this chapter, but maybe I can edit it if I see something I could change later.
> 
> Also, me and a couple of friends made a discord server for RDR2 and casual chatter if anyone is interested! Here's the link: https://discord.gg/pbc4TSH

Night cast a gloomy shadow over the camp, and combined with the fog, it was near impossible to see further than three feet ahead without fire and lanterns. 

Arthur struggled to keep his eyes open and limbs moving at every point, body screaming for sleep. He did his best to ignore it, however, as the premonition of having another nightmare was enough to draw him away.  
Instead, he paced around the edge of camp, watching the forest for movement to give himself the illusion that he was doing something productive while he was up late. Javier was on watch, though; there was no need for him to help.

He wandered elsewhere, shuffling his feet against the ground just slightly to make sure he wouldn't trip over something in the dark. He spotted Dutch's lantern, and the silhouette of him standing and smoking just outside his and Molly's tent. Arthur felt a twist in his guts.

For too long - long enough for Arthur to question if it was normal or not - Dutch continued to ignore and dismiss him whenever Arthur tried to talk to him. Dutch had been like this before, and each time it hurt just the same as it did now, only this time it had been weeks - maybe a month - since this silent grudge started.  
Before, it would anger Arthur. _What a goddamn child,_ he'd think. Then, gradually, he'd start to realize how he wanted nothing more than to talk to Dutch, and then he'd warm up to talking about it along with an apology. Arthur didn't always understand why he was punished so, even when Dutch explained it, but if he pressed it, it would only make it worse when he wanted to move on. And so, he didn't press it. He'd question his own intelligence, feel bad about himself, and then move on.

This time, Arthur had been too exhausted from the sap of willpower and spew of antagonizing words in his head along with the common feeling of dread to want to let up his last sliver of pride to Dutch. Or, truth be told, maybe it wasn't pride so much as it was self-preservation. He valued Dutch's word far too much, even now after all the years he had been with him, and with that he feared with how hurt he already was, Dutch would just knock him down completely. For once, he didn't think 'just keep your head up and stay alive' was a helpful thought to keep when his will to live was already so fragile.

Yet, when he saw Dutch, he felt like he wanted to take a chance to win back his favor, to win back his attention. His feet took him closer to Dutch quicker than his sense told him to leave. He wanted to try, even if just a little, to be seen again, for this to be another one of those Periods of Silence that were forgotten about as soon as they were over. He wanted to see Dutch, the _real_ Dutch again.

"What are you staring at me for?" Dutch huffed. Arthur felt like he might tip over with the burst of anxiety that went through his chest.

"Uh. Nothin'. Just wanted to say hi." He chewed at his lip. "Me 'n Charles, uh, we went out huntin'. Brought back a lotta elk meat, me 'n him did. Pearson's taking care of the pelt, and we're planning on hanging up the antlers somewhere here in camp."

"Okay." Was all Dutch responded with, voice void of any emotion. He stared off into the darkness without acknowledging Arthur any further.

The silence grew heavy for Arthur. He cleared his throat. "You know, you been awfully quiet lately."

Dutch snapped his eyes on him, frowning. "What do you want me to goddamn say? Do you want praise? Want me to goddamn kiss your feet for bringing that elk back?"

"Ah, no -" Arthur chuckled nervously, raising his hands up as if though he were surrendering to the law. "That's not what I meant -"

"You always demand my attention, and when you do, you don't even bother to give anything back. Always thinking for yourself, always out for yourself, you don't give a rat's ass about anyone else. You're not the only person in the world, _Arthur._ " Dutch sneered, his voice raising louder and louder. Arthur couldn't argue, as when he'd try, Dutch would shoot first. "I can divide my attention to whomever I goddamn please. It doesn't have to be you."  
_You sure like dividin' it to Micah._ Arthur thought; he would not dare say it.

"You know, Arthur, I expect it to be you who betrays me in the end." Dutch lowered his voice again, calm, yet shaken with rage. Arthur stared at the ground, wrapping his own arms around himself, cradling his chest. "If you haven't already. You're always questioning me, always doubting me. Waiting until I snap, until _everyone_ snaps so they'd fall right into your trap." _What trap?_ Was the only thought Arthur could make coherent.  
He didn't look to meet Dutch's eyes when he moved close, face inches away from Arthur's.

"I'm not going to let you take advantage of us. Of any of us. We will find out what you've done, and when we find out..." Dutch almost spat out, tone lowered but seething. He never finished his sentence, though the implication was enough.  
Arthur lifted his eyes to Dutch's. The terror in his belly only grew worse when he did so, but he swallowed hard. He wanted to speak, to defend himself, but every time he tried, no words came out. Small noises, and nothing more, for no thought he had could be spoken with language.

A part of him wanted to cry, the tears caught up in his throat, but even if it was safe to do so without being considered manipulative or weak, he physically couldn't. He had been so tired of crying before - back in the days of Eliza, Isaac, and even Mary not long after that - that he suppressed it as often as he could, the occasion rare. He had cried many times in the past month, though it was difficult; either difficult to stop himself when it suddenly started, or difficult to get there in the first place. Most times, it was the latter, and he could feel it happening then with Dutch's confrontation. Even if he was alone, the swell in his throat would prefer to choke him to death than release itself through tears.

"Dutch, that's quite enough." Arthur felt a tsunami of relief when he heard Hosea approach them. "You and I both know he wouldn't do anything nearly as drastic as you're implying. Stop interrogating him."

"I see it in his eyes, Hosea." Dutch said. "He's a liar. He's been lyin' to us about something and we don't know what. I'm sick of wondering."

Arthur wanted to scream. At him, at anything. He felt completely and utterly powerless. He could feel breath, skin on his that made him want to peel it all off like a deer's hide. He felt so much, yet nothing at the same time, and it made him want to _scream._ Yet, he still couldn't speak a word.

"Tell me yourself. Did you betray us? Sell us out?" Dutch turned up his chin, and Arthur felt small.

"N-no." Arthur barely made out through a broken voice. Dutch's expression softened, yet kept its firm glare.

"Dutch, we've known him for twenty years. We practically raised him. He's as loyal as a dog. He wouldn't sell us out." Hosea said. "Now leave him the hell alone."  
Arthur couldn't help but feel shaken by the fire in Hosea's voice. Dutch kept a look on Arthur before he nodded, whipped around and went back into his and Molly's tent. Arthur wanted to reach for him, like a small child vouching for his father's attention and to make up for what he had done, but he knew it would only make things worse. Instead, he stood there, dumbstruck. He released a hitched breath, realizing only now how horrible his hands shook. With that, he realized he wasn't going to get much sleep tonight, if any at all.

"You alright?" Hosea was calm now, reassuring even.

Arthur realized he could breath now. His body trembled, and as he looked at his hands, they were as unsteady as a branch and its leaves in a storm. He wrapped his arms around himself to keep them as steady as possible.  
He tried to relax, but he was wide awake, shaken to a feeling similar to when he got into gunfights.  
Or when he was violated.  
Great, didn't need that thought now.

Arthur had all but forgotten that Hosea was next to him and had spoken, and when he remembered, it was too late to respond.

"Come on, follow me." Hosea said. Arthur reluctantly followed as he was led to his own tent, the camp eerily quiet even in the dead of night.  
They sat on the cot, Arthur stiff while Hosea leaned forward, hands together as they both collected their thoughts.

"I don't want you to say something you're not ready to say, but I think it's worth considerin' that Dutch might come to his senses if you told him about what happened in the swamp. Contrary to what he says, he ain't always the most empathetic type, so sometimes you gotta be straightforward with him." Hosea looked at Arthur with a light nod of his head, then continued. "Now I know that's difficult, and if you'd like me to, I can talk to him about it. But that's your decision, and if you don't want him to know right now, ain't nothing wrong with it."

Arthur stared at the flower on his table, contemplating Hosea's words.

"Either way, I'll have a talk with him." Hosea lowered his voice further, near inaudible. "I know you, Arthur. I trust you."

Arthur felt something catch in his throat again. He was terrible at figuring out his emotions, but he knew this time it was positive, Hosea's words striking flint into a welcome flame.  
"Thank you." Arthur rasped. "I'll... think on it."  
Hosea smiled, gave Arthur a light slap on the shoulder, and then stood up.  
"Alright. Get some sleep. You'll need it." Hosea said, then turned to stalk over to his own tent.

Arthur listened. He lied down, though sleep wouldn't him.

Hours and hours would pass. His mind would run, and continue running until it was suffocating and strangling him.  
Even then, he couldn't cry. He was drowning, but the water never got to his eyes.  
He wondered if it would help to stand up, walk around, see if anyone was awake. No one would be awake at this hour, though, except for whoever had taken up watch in the night.  
He could bother them, but he quickly lost the spark to do so the more he thought about it.  
Instead, he stayed where he was.

He waited until exhaustion finally overtook him.

Anxiety and dread lingered in his dreams, though held an eerie peace. The vision of a herd of bison running across rocky and rough terrain, mountains in the background, swam in his head, soothing him in his sleep.

\--

Arthur woke up in the afternoon, immediately dreading being alive. 

Thankfully, no one made any acknowledgment of last night, or his morning absence. He continued what was left of the day as if everything were normal.

Many of the chores had been done already, the only one left being chopping wood, so that was what he did. By the end of it, he returned to his cot and lied down, praying silently that no one would come to chid him for lazing around just yet.

He could go out, hunt, though it wasn't like they needed anymore food.  
He could go see about finding money; finding a home, stagecoach, anything to rob. He could.  
He shifted uncomfortably. Then he sat up, journal in hand for him to stare blankly at.  
Paranoia was already itching at him, deep underneath his skin. He at least longed for a distraction, though could think of nothing that would provide it. He didn't want to draw or write, not really, but he ended up sketching a little doodle of a family of raccoons.

He was lost in the motions with the pencil when Charles sat next to him, two bowls of stew in each hand, nearly startling Arthur with his sudden presence. Though he was the largest man in camp, his feet were as silent as the paws of a cougar, his ability to sneak up on someone unknowingly being a habit.  
Arthur shut his journal, letting his nerves cool. Charles made no acknowledgment of Arthur's jumpy behavior. He simply offered one of the bowls of stew, of which Arthur took and held in his lap. Arthur's gaze lingered on him, gradually turning from nervous to soft. 

Arthur was underweight. He had a tendency to forget eating, and when he did, there was a 50/50 chance he would choose not to unless he was hungry enough to be dizzy. He stared at the bowl of stew as if though it was nothing, despite having not eaten since the day before.

Then he felt Charles' expectant eyes on him, and sighed. He appreciated the gesture, and didn't want to disappoint him, so he ate.  
The meat was gamey, but an improvement to Pearson's cooking. It was the elk they hunted, he knew.

"You alright?" Charles asked.  
Arthur considered lying, but he couldn't. Not to Charles. The friend he made quick, found easy comfort in the presence of, the man he knew to be honest and trustworthy. Unjudgmental. He wanted to show the same in return.  
"As 'alright' as I can be, I guess." He settled on. "Dutch is thinkin' I betrayed him. Damn nightmares keep plaguing me, too. Didn't have one last night, though, in spite of things."

"Glad to hear it. I heard what was going on last night. Not sure if I understand it, though." Charles said.  
"What don't you understand?" Arthur's voice was blank; neutral.  
"I know I haven't been in the gang long, but, well... You've never seemed like the kind of man Dutch is claiming. You seem loyal. Maybe too loyal."  
Arthur huffed in amusement. "Too loyal?"  
Charles didn't respond.

Arthur thought it over, wondered if he was right. He decided to move on.  
"Well, thanks. Feels like he's on my ass for every little thing nowadays."  
Charles nodded lightly, placed his hand on Arthur's shoulder, then returned to his lunch. Arthur did not flinch at the touch, instead wishing that it lasted longer.  
It was when he was done with his stew did Charles speak again.

"When did these nightmares start?"  
Arthur bit his lip.  
"Well, always had em, sorta. Got worse more recently."  
"What are they of?" Charles tone was gentle, patient. Not trying to pry, look into business that was not his own. Just simply curious.  
"Don't wanna talk about it." Arthur kept his voice low, a twinge of guilt hitting him.  
"That's alright."

Arthur stared down at his own now-empty bowl.  
"Are _you_ alright?" asked Arthur. He immediately felt embarrassment boil in his ears, second-guessing the simple question and even more so as Charles looked at him, expression strange yet unreadable. It settled into a soft, almost unnoticeable smile.  
"Yeah. I'm alright."  
In that moment, Arthur's embarrassment melted fast, turning into a spark of something as rare as as a white deer: joy. As for why he felt it, he couldn't say. His best guess was Charles' smile, appreciation noticeable in his eyes, even for so few words.  
Arthur felt an intense longing swell in his chest. A longing to befriend Charles, to be closer to him, emotionally and physically. Even with Charles having only stuck with them for eight months by now, even if they rarely talked, just simply being next to him, working with him, spending time with him was enough for Arthur to feel close and comfortable with him. Yet, he wanted more, wanted to know for sure he wouldn't drive Charles away with pointless or incessant chatter, wanted to know if Charles felt the same, wanted to know just more about him in general. 

And in that moment, the strongest desire of them all, he wanted to hug him.  
He realized he couldn't remember the last time he held someone he wanted to hold. 

Arthur realized he was staring. He felt fluid catch in his eyes. Charles was looking elsewhere, now, and Arthur wasn't sure if he wanted him to acknowledge the stare or not.

"If you need anything, let me know. I'm going to go see what John wants." Charles said. With a quick glance back and forth, Arthur realized that was who he was looking at, waiting patiently at the other end of the camp.  
"Catch ya later." Arthur muttered instinctively. As Charles left him, he stared down at his own hands, dwelling on his thoughts.

Maybe he could bring up that trip again sometime soon.


	3. In the Woods Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur acknowledges something he's been keeping buried, and grows fonder of Charles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I imagine this taking place in Clemen's Point (Pre-BATPM) if that helps set the scene. I may add that to earlier and later chapters at some point, but for now I figure I should mention that lol
> 
> But yeah uh certainly been a while since I've updated hasn't it? XD And I don't really expect that I'd have a schedule for this either. My motivation comes and goes, as does my time. I just slapped the rest of this WIP chapter out in one go in the middle of the night too so if there's any mistakes let me know lol
> 
> Also I know the pace of this is pretty slow. Kinda meant to be a day-to-day life type thing I suppose? But still, I hope the pace isn't /too/ slow ;w;

Two days had gone by in the blink of an eye.

Arthur had just gotten done with chopping wood, flicking beads of sweat off of his forehead when Dutch approached him. He felt a clip of his dear old friend anxiety, yet paid it nor Dutch no mind until the man began to speak.

"Arthur." His voice was soft, softer than Arthur had heard in ages. Arthur looked at him, but did not meet his eyes.  
"i'm..." Dutch hesitated, mulling over his words before they came out. A sigh, and then, "I'm sorry. For thinking that you'd betray us like that, sell us out with such... Cowardice. That's not you, and I don't know what got into me."

It was so, so rare to hear Dutch apologize, for pride was often his biggest downfall. Arthur was vaguely touched by it, albeit caught off-guard. He didn't know what to say. He didn't think he could forgive him so quickly, not anymore, but he still thought about it.  
When Dutch realized this, he cleared his throat. He looked to the side, glancing at nothing, hands behind his back.

"I've been... Real stressed, son. There's a lot of pressure on me right now. Pinkertons, O'Driscolls, the law - you know the deal. We have to be extra careful, especially with our new position in Rhodes." Then, Dutch turned back to Arthur. "We need to have faith. There's no time for traiters or doubters or anything of that sort going on in camp. You know that. We have to stick together. To survive."

Arthur wrinkled his nose, uncertain of how to take his words. "Alright, Dutch."

"Good." Dutch grinned, gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. Arthur nearly flinched, and Dutch, upon noticing this, changed the subject. "Say, you alright? You have been acting kinda... _different_ lately."

"Never better." Arthur said. He leaned up against the nearby tree, took out a cigarette, struck a match against one of his spurs and lit it. He inhaled coolly, eyes half-lidded.

"Glad to hear it. Take care, son." And with a final pat, Dutch left him alone.

Out of all things that Dutch said, the word 'doubters' kept ringing in his mind.  
He knew what he thought, but he didn't want to acknowledge it. So stubbornly did he push it down every time it came up all those months ago, even before Blackwater. It was a particularly pesky little fly, buzzing around his head, growing larger every time disaster struck.  
And now, that his own head was going in the gutter, after being tried and broken time and time again, this most recent trauma only intensifying all those previous tragedies - and now that Dutch has all but proven what and who he was to Arthur now, of which he struggled to name - now, he begrudgingly let himself acknowledge it.  
He was doubting Dutch.

Arthur was still certain he was loyal, yet even that was questioned with this newly free thought. He loved the man, but the anger he felt, boiling in his veins, subtle and just under the surface, he realized he had a limit. And in that limit, he realized, too, that he doubted Dutch, he doubted his ability to lead them to safety.  
Hell was coming in from all sides, and civilization was its name. No, this time, Dutch was merely leading them all into a trap, and was going to get them all killed if he wasn't careful.  
He saw that better than before.  
For now, he suppressed it, but surely, it would stay in the back of his mind, waiting for his predictions to be true.

\--

Not all nights were filled with nightmares. Sometimes, he wondered if they were finally gone.

And then, he was struck again.

Arthur woke up in a frenzy, clutching at his chest, the nightmare creeping over his body with a feeling of dread buried deep within. The memory of the dream was gone as soon as he tried to recall it, and he couldn't help but feel it; an island of relief above an ocean of dark panic. 

Two figures approached from the black of night. Suddenly, he jerked up. He scrambled back, leaning into the far corner atop his cot. 

"Hey! Hey, Arthur, you okay?" That was Lenny's voice calling.  
"It's okay. We're not going to hurt you." Came Charles, too, his voice as calm as if nothing happened. Lenny stood back while Charles cautiously approached, and Arthur's eyes were adjusting to where he could only just see their faces.

Arthur felt shackles and the horrid scent of swamp, blood, and the odor of a man who likely only bathed once a year. Momentarily, he felt again what it was like to stand at those two crosses, or the many times before when he watched good men die, and all of it accumulated into one feeling: dread.

He tried to slow his breathing, smooth out his expression. He tried to believe Charles, and he wished his voice could soothe him as well as it did many times before.  
But one could only do so much when a mountain of guilt, regrets, and pains ran through Arthur's head faster than he could catch it. He just wished it would stop.

"Arthur, it's alright." Charles repeated, even softer than before. His movements were slow as he lowered himself onto the edge of the cot, opposite of Arthur, his gaze fixed on him.  
"I-is he alright? He don't look so good." Lenny asked, met with no response.

Arthur wanted to claw and bite at himself. He still couldn't breathe properly. He wished he could cry, though that ability was lost long ago, somewhere in the middle of loss and gunfire.  
"We heard you scream all of a sudden. Wanted to check up on you." Charles explained. And then, after a beat, "nightmare?"  
Arthur nodded quickly. His throat hurt, and he feared that if he spoke, his voice would crack.

"Want to tell me about it?"  
Arthur shook his head. He wrapped his arms around his knees, holding them together tight.

"Alright. Want my company?" Charles leaned forward.

Arthur thought for a moment, and then nodded slowly. Charles turned to Lenny.

"He'll be alright. You can go back to the fire without me, tell them he's safe."

Lenny's face, twisted with worry, straightened when Charles looked at him. He nodded, and then reluctantly left them alone.

Silence. Arthur heard the way Charles shifted in the dark, the crickets chirped, and the faint voice of Hosea telling a story over the campfire. Charles asked if he could light the lantern atop a barrel next to the cot, and when Arthur responded with a hoarse "yeah" he did so. It provided just enough light for Charles to whittle and craft arrows. Arthur didn't mind, as watching him work provided a welcome distraction.

"Still like that bow I gave you?" Charles asked. Arthur's breathing was normal, although he still looked pale, eyes wide and alert as he chewed on his lip.

"Yeah. Use it a lot for huntin' things. Versatile enough."

Charles smile was subtle yet genuine. "I saw. You've improved fast."  
Arthur lingered on that compliment for longer than he would've liked to admit.

He almost missed Charles holding out his hand with a batch of arrows balanced there.  
"Need anymore arrows?"

Arthur, hand shaky as can be, took them and looked over them. He set them aside where he would pack them away later. "I-I do. Thank you, Charles." He said, voice still hoarse.

Charles resumed his work. If he knew that Arthur was staring at him, he didn't show it.

Arthur, again, had a sudden thought to hug him, wondering how strange it would be to do so in that very moment. For the first time in near forever, his back tingled, his fingers itched, and his chest ached with that very desire. Years of pushing it away, not letting touch him except for Mary (when they were together), Hosea, Dutch, Jack, or the rare stranger (namely Mickey) who needed one, as reluctant Arthur was to give it. He still remembered the few times Eliza held him, or the time Isaac fell asleep on his lap after they had gone fishing.

In his childhood, Arthur had learned fast to keep his guard up, to never let anyone touch them, for they were always itching to beat, throw, or shove him, if not worse. He learned this from his father, and when he died, many more after that. It was only when Dutch and Hosea picked him up did he receive physical affection. It was the first time he had felt it since his mother, who had long passed by that point. Their touch and hugs were brief, but still fed an itch, a deep longing to not feel alone. 

At that age, after being given security, food, water, shelter, and money from the two men who raised him, he started to seek to satisfy that itch further.  
Saloons, waitresses, any women (once, even a man) who would take him. On the surface it was lust, but buried deep within, it was the desire to feel loved.  
Mary had made him feel that way more than anyone. When they were together, she became his home away from home, the one he could always turn to, the one he could always hold, feel pride in as he made sure to make her feel safe. She gave him what no one else had, and what no one else did after they split.

He missed her. He missed her for far longer than he would admit, and even now, a part of him wished he had her by his side. But, as always, he was alone. He had to be alone.

He was a terrible man, living a terrible life, deserving no more than to be hung by a noose. He didn't blame her nor his past relationships nor his past friends for leaving him. He was alone, and he had to be. The only constant was the gang, especially Dutch, Hosea, and John, but he still kept them at a distance. Charles, he was a fairly new recruit, yet Arthur felt drawn to him. He wondered why Charles hadn't left already now that things were bad, with Blackwater and Valentine left behind them, mess after mess created by the gang.

He was broken out of his thoughts when suddenly, Charles spoke.  
"Micah's sitting at the fire over there. Tried to sit next to me."

Arthur looked in the direction of the glow, hidden around the corner by tents. "Well, I can say I'm better company than him, at least." He couldn't make himself laugh, but he did say it with a hint of amusement.

"Yeah." Charles said. "Called me something I don't feel like repeating. Don't know why Dutch hasn't kicked him out already." A long pause, and then, "I've seen and known men like him before. Never up to anything good. Only out for themselves, happy to damn everyone else. Don't trust him."

"Me neither. Don't know what Dutch sees in 'im." Before, Arthur would state that he trusted Dutch's insight, as much as he hated Micah. He might even go as far as defend Dutch's decision. Now, all he did was sigh.

In the dim light, Arthur took out his journal. A place he felt more free in than anywhere else, all on paper. When he looked at it and tried to think of words or what to draw, however, he fell blank. His mind wouldn't even permit him this distraction.

Arthur cleared his throat. "I, uh... 'preciate you sittin' here with me. Sorry I'm not much to talk to."

"I'm not much of a talker. I don't mind." Charles said, serious. Arthur swallowed down his insecurity.

"But, uh - odd question - what's your favorite plant?" Arthur asked, and at that, he caught a glimpse of the subtle way Charles' lips crooked.

"Wood sorrel."

It was all he needed. Arthur formed an image in his head, and then tried his hand at scribbling out the common plant. Next to it, he doodled the pokeweed residing not far from his cot, then a better drawing of Charles' face from the perspective of where he was sitting. He didn't know if he enjoyed drawing in that moment; it certainly didn't feel productive, but it was something.

"What's so special about wood sorrel? Pretty common little plant." A faint attempt at teasing him, if it could even be considered that.

Charles hummed. "When I was young - really young - I found some wood sorrel. Pulled it up from the ground, ran over to my mother, told her I found her some strange clovers." He spoke, fond. "As she was explaining to me what they were, my father came up behind me, took them, and took a bite out of half the plant. Don't think I'll ever forget my father's confusion as she scolded him while I was crying. Think that's one of the only good memories I have before... well."

Arthur understood. He nodded, casting a glance off to the side.

"Y'know, my ma died when i was real young." He gestured with his hand to the photo he still had of her, sitting on his table. "I ain't got many memories of her, but she was the sweetest thing. Taught me how to get wool from a sheep, how to milk a cow. We was attached at the hip, if I remember correctly, and then... well." He scratched his jaw, recalling the memory. His father keeping him from going in their bedroom, looking more terrified than he'd ever been. Going in and out of the room, and in between, Arthur sneaking in to cuddle up against her. The smell of vomit and feces heavy in the air. The sound of her voice one last time before she took her final breath. "Cholera got her. All it took was a day."

"I'm sorry." Charles said. His words sounded like nothing, but the way he looked at him, the way Arthur caught his eyes, he felt he understood. Arthur placed his hand on Charles' shoulder, firm and reassuring as he could make it. In another situation, he would merely dismiss the words, say it was all a long time ago, but...

"I'm sorry, too. 'Bout your ma. You don't talk her about her much, she... sounded like a good woman."

"She was." Charles said. His eyes briefly flickered to the hand that touched him, but made no move to pull away. He looked down, shifting in his seat. A long beat of silence passed before he spoke again. "I was real young when she was taken away, like I said. I don't want to imagine what happened to her after that. Nothing I'm optimistic about." Arthur leaned forward, thumb brushing over Charles' shoulder as the man spoke. "Still don't know why they took her, either."  
Talking about her - talking about his feelings in general - must've been new for Charles with the way he shifted, wrung his fingers, and let out a strange half-chuckle here and then that Arthur was surprised to hear.  
Arthur nodded. He wished he was better at comfort.

"You remember what she was like?" Arthur asked.

Charles made a thoughtful hum. He looked to the stars, searching them for whatever memory he could find in them.

"Wouldn't think it when you looked at her, but she was strong. Real strong. Kind, but not afraid to give some tough love. She was honest. Saw the best in people. I admired her."

Under his grip, Arthur could feel the other relax. He stopped his small half-hearted laughs. Arthur wondered, too, how far Charles' admiration for his mother took him, or how much she influenced him.

"You know, I-I remember too - she used to make things. Art. With feathers, leather, stones, whatever she could find. Especially feathers. Eagles, though. Eagle feathers are sacred. She had one, kept it safe somewhere I didn't know." Charles paused. The end of his lip quirked up, though it was subtle, as usual. "Wonder if it's still there, in that house. Wonder if my father even still lives there, if he's alive at all. Not sure if I care anymore."

Throughout it all, Arthur listened intently, absorbing every bit with warmth and interest. The silence that fell after was just as comfortable.

"Sorry. I don't talk about it often." Charles muttered.

"Ain't nothin' to be sorry for." Arthur smiled just as slight as Charles had before. "Hearin' you talk about your family, before what happened... Iunno. Makes me feel somethin' in my cold, dead heart."

For a moment, Charles' laugh was a bit too loud, his back jerking with it. Arthur watched him, fond as always.  
"Glad to hear it."

"Did you keep anythin' from her? From your childhood?"

"There's the photo I keep of her, me, and my father near my bedroll. Other than that, I had an earring with bluejay feathers, but... well. Got torn out, and I couldn't find it again."

Arthur grimaced at the mental image. Though his ears weren't pierced, he still could imagine just how unpleasant it was to have an earring torn out.

"Well, maybe if I find some of their feathers, I'll give 'em to you."

Charles turned to him, a spark in his eyes that Arthur had never seen. "I'd appreciate that. Just... Don't kill something just for me."

"I won't." Arthur said.

Fond looks, and a comfortable silence fell once again, save for the sound of crickets and the distant hoo of an owl.  
Here, Arthur found that the pit in his stomach was gone, replaced with warmth. He couldn't be more grateful, either.

It wasn't long until his eyes felt heavy again, too. Charles must've been feeling the same, as soon enough, he stood up and collected his items he'd brought in hand.  
"It was lovely talkin' to ya." Arthur said.

"You as well, Arthur." Charles replied, making his cold, dead heart swell just a little bit. "Goodnight."

Charles went to his bedroll, and Arthur shifted into a comfortable position on his cot. He dwelled on Charles, on what he had learned already about him and how he wished to know more, so much more.

Arthur slept, and though his dreams rarely were good, they were far more peaceful than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback is appreciated, whether it be compliments or constructive criticism c: Always looking to improve


End file.
